


Monument To Your Sins

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consequences, Gen, Politics, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27176647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: It was as though Deathsaurus was entirely neutral in the matter, doing nothing more than holding up a mirror, and Megatron could not bear the reflection he saw in it.Dying of the Light AU where Deathsaurus takes Megatron prisoner while Tarn fights Overlord, and prisoner and warden have a little discussion.
Comments: 23
Kudos: 61





	Monument To Your Sins

_I am a monument to all your sins._

_\--The Gravemind, “Halo 3”_

His life had been a succession of decisions made in confined spaces. Now Megatron found himself in such a space yet again. This time, it was the brig of Deathsaurus’s Warworld. 

Or so Megatron supposed. He couldn’t see much other than the walls, floor, and ceiling of his small, windowless cell, and a little bit of the corridor on the other side of the electrified bars, where his warden leaned against a bare wall, observing him. But he could feel the thrum of massive engines reverberating through the floor and walls. It was both too powerful and too distant for his cell to be located on an average-sized shuttle. As for his warden, it was none other than Deathsaurus himself. 

Megatron didn’t remember coming here. He had been beaten half-unconscious by Tarn on Necroworld, before Overlord showed up and gave Tarn someone else to focus his fury on. Megatron did remember dragging his frame towards the little pink space scooter he’d ridden to the rendezvous with Tarn. 

He also recalled the temptation to just lie down and let death take him. After all, a minute earlier, he’d been prepared to let Tarn beat him to death. Something had urged him to keep going. Megatron wasn’t sure if it had been a statement of philosophy—a refusal to let Tarn and all his cruelty win—or just dogged force of habit or something else. He knew only that he had to get back to the fortress where the so-called Rod Squad were preparing for a siege. 

Megatron would never use that name. _Rod Squad_. It was ridiculous, like so many other things on the _Lost Light._

But he’d never made it back to the Rod Squad—back to the fortress. He hadn’t even made it as far as the scooter. His memory offered up a flicker of movement, a face that was probably Deathsaurus’s, and a knockout blow. 

He’d woken up on a cot in this cell. 

Megatron had been lying very still ever since he’d come around, waiting for his systems to come fully online. Deathsaurus had been watching him at least that long. Megatron had heard the warlord’s systems venting air even before he’d carefully lit his optics and seen him leaning against the wall on the other side of the bars. 

_Surely he knows I’m awake._

Megatron doubted that Deathsaurus would watch so patiently if he thought Megatron was still in stasis. 

Nor did Megatron have anything to lose by tipping his hand and admitting that he was awake. Feigning unconsciousness was, at this point, drawing out the current deadlock for no particular advantage. Megatron’s self-repair systems were already slowing to conserve fuel burn. He would likely not have the luxury of days, or weeks, to heal. His frame was as healed as it was going to get before he’d be forced to deal with whatever Deathsaurus had in mind. That would definitely be before anyone from the _Lost Light_ could mount a rescue. 

Better he face Deathsaurus at a time of his choosing. It was the only choice he had left to him. Better he know what the renegade warlord was thinking. 

There had to be a reason he hadn’t been murdered while he was unconscious. 

Although there was a part of Megatron that wished he _had_ been—he certainly had it coming—now that he was awake, aware, and still alive, it was time to get on with whatever happened next. He felt so, so tired. Tired of the struggle, tired of cruelty, tired of his own regrets. Tired of time spent waiting in confined spaces. 

“Why don’t you kill me and get it over with,” Megatron said. 

He fixed his gaze on the ceiling. Still, he heard Deathsaurus approaching. He did not hear a gasp, or the tell-tale clatter of a flinch. Deathsaurus had not been surprised when Megatron started talking. 

The footsteps stopped in front of Megatron’s cell. Deathsaurus’s voice was level, calm and emotionless. “If it was up to me, I would have.” 

Megatron sat up. For a brief disorienting moment, his vision smeared into colour and his gyros spun wildly; then his equilibrium reset, and he saw Deathsaurus standing barely a step away from the energized bars at the front of his cell. 

Their optics locked and they stared at each other for long moments. Deathsaurus seemed to be in no hurry to initiate a conversation. 

This was a tactic that Megatron had used in the past. Haul mechs in, look intimidating, keep your silence, and listen to them babble themselves into confessions. It irked Megatron to be on the receiving end of it. 

But Megatron believed Deathsaurus was prepared to wait, while Megatron had already chosen to tip his hand and advance the next move in this game of chess. “You’re not in command on your own Warworld?” Megatron asked. He felt secretly pleased that he still knew how to get under another mech’s plating. An instant later, he felt ashamed of his pleasure. He should know better than to take delight in cruelty. 

Deathsaurus’s wing feathers rustled, but that was the only outward sign of any annoyance in response to Megatron’s provocation. Deathsaurus answered the question in subtext while he changed the subject. “Tarn was very insistent that I hold you until he returns from dealing with Overlord.” 

Megatron didn’t like the way that Deathsaurus was looking at him. 

Perhaps it was just because Megatron had grown accustomed to rage, and fear, and hatred, and regret. He’d gotten a lot of those kinds of looks during the course of his trial. Deathsaurus’s features were impassively neutral, except for his optics. Deathsaurus had all four optics locked on Megatron, each one shining brightly with a gaze as sharp as a laser. It felt as though the rogue warlord wanted to cut him open and take a look inside. 

Megatron felt a strange sensation over his frame and guessed that he’d been pinged with sonics, or x-rays, or _something_. The _looking inside_ sensation became uncomfortably literal. 

“What do you want?” Megatron demanded. He’d lived this scenario too many times. He had no interest in messing with Deathsaurus’s head, and he was tired of being messed with himself. He just wanted to get this conversation over with. 

Deathsaurus cocked his head and said, in that same level tone, “Where the hell were you when Cybertronians like me were forced to fight a war just because we were made that way?” 

Megatron frowned, recognizing the line. He’d expected that sort of thing from Tarn. Except that Tarn would quote him perfectly. “That’s a paraphrase.” 

“That’s my speech from the Second Vorsk Offensive. Delivered in a trench, during a short break in the Autobot shelling. I wrote it down about twenty years later, shortly after I began reading _Towards Peace_.” 

Megatron was not surprised that Deathsaurus would have read his works. He’d associated with Ravage long enough to know better than to underestimate either beastformers or the constructed cold. He didn’t know Deathsaurus well at all, but he knew that many of Deathsaurus’s victories were won atop the corpses of people who had underestimated him. 

Deathsaurus’s optics narrowed as he continued. “I wrote it down so I would know with certainty what my thoughts and words had been _prior to_ your influence.” 

“At a different time, in a different place, you asked the same questions of your society as I did, and came to similar conclusions.” Megatron stroked his chin. “Convergent evolution.” 

“But there had been over two million years between the second, mass edition of _Towards Peace_ , and the Second Vorsk Offensive.” For the first time, there was a hint of anger in Deathsaurus’s voice. “History had moved on.” 

Megatron sighed. “So that’s it. Two million years, and you come online and read my words and discover that they resonate with your own, only to find out that two million years of Decepticonism hadn’t fixed Cybertron’s problems. That we still needed MTOs like you to right the wrongs of our history. All that struggle and nothing had changed.” 

Deathsaurus’s optics sparked light. _Surprise_. Then Deathsaurus leaned forward, and narrowed all four optics, and his gaze grew sharp enough for slaughter, and he said three words in a soft and calm voice: 

“Megatron, _everything_ changed.” 

“Everything,” Megatron repeated, lost as to what Deathsaurus meant. 

Deathsaurus looked, if anything, disappointed. “At least for you.” 

Megatron’s instincts kicked in at the last possible moment. He felt as though he’d been lulled to recharge with a false sense of security just because Deathsaurus wasn’t yelling, or gloating, or pontificating, or any of the normal responses to having an enemy on his knees. Now he felt a sense of impending disaster that had nothing to do with Tarn and everything to do with Deathsaurus. 

Deathsaurus inhaled, paused, and then spoke. “It wasn’t the Senate that put my crew in that trench.” 

Megatron’s mind replayed Deathsaurus’s speech, now that he understood it not been intended as a quote of _Towards Peace._ Two million years ago Deathsaurus had stood in a trench under Autobot fire and asked a rhetorical question. Where the hell was Megatron, the founder of Decepticonism and rebel against the abuses of the Autobots and the Senate, when the MTOs were dying? 

Then Megatron heard Tarn’s words echoing in his head. _Every flower represents a life you ended – a death for which you bear full responsibility. You think they’re all Autobots?_

When he’d first heard them, in that field of blue flowers, Tarn’s words had inspired thoughts about Soundwave, and Starscream, and the other Decepticons who had rallied to his banner. Particularly the friends that Megatron had lost, like Nightstalker, and Trannis, and Terminus…the losses that had _hurt_. 

He’d not thought about the made-to-order soldiers. 

Not once. 

Deathsaurus followed up the direct hit with a second devastating strike. “It wasn’t the Senate who built us to fight their war.” 

Megatron felt his throat close. 

He’d done to the MTOs exactly what the Functionists had done to him. 

And Deathsaurus was still warming up. “It wasn’t the Senate who _designed_ us to be killers.” His tone remained level, though his optics blazed like the Inferno itself. 

Why wouldn’t Deathsaurus yell? Why wouldn’t he scream? Why didn’t he deactivate the bars and rip off Megatron’s head and crush his brain and snuff his spark? 

Where was Megatron’s punishment? 

Deathsaurus just stood there, stating facts in an almost conversational voice, while his gaze eviscerated Megatron from the inside out. 

_Anything_ would be better than this. 

It was as though Deathsaurus was entirely neutral in the matter, doing nothing more than holding up a mirror, and Megatron could not bear the reflection he saw in it. 

“And,” Deathsaurus said, “whenever we tried to be something other than our birthright—something other than soldiers or killers—it wasn’t the Senate who sent the DJD after us.” 

There were no words for how much he’d wronged these mechs. What apology could ever begin to be enough? 

“You hate me,” Megatron whispered. 

Deathsaurus’s optics flashed. His mouth opened. Surprise was clear on his face. “How can I hate you when I don’t even know you?” 

“But…” 

“Do I hate what you _did_ , certainly.” Deathsaurus folded his hands behind his back and paced in front of the cell, as though he were thinking out loud. Megatron noticed that Deathsaurus made tight turns, never leaving Megatron’s view, as though he, too, was caged in a cell. “I can’t hate you for starting the chain of events that created me, though. I _like_ being alive.” Deathsaurus changed shape as he moved, re-forming his body from mech to creature without breaking stride. “No, I think what I hate is what you did to your people. Not just my people.” 

Deathsaurus halted, turning his draconian head. Two beast optics were no less cutting than four had been. “Where are your people, now that you’re wearing that badge?” 

“My…” 

“I hear Soundwave is on Earth. Starscream’s ruling Cybertron. Scorponok is running around playing mad scientist. But they were all ranking officers. Members of the Conclave. They had enough clout to save themselves.” Deathsaurus resumed his restless pacing. “What about your infantry? The mechs who gave up everything to follow you? The mechs who you _made_ for your war? What have _they_ got now that the war is over? What did you leave them with?” 

“I…” 

Primus help him, he’d not thought about that. 

“I don’t deserve to lead them…” 

“So you leave them with _nothing_.” Finally there was emotion in Deathsaurus’s voice. Disgust. 

“They’re better off without me.” 

“Prove it.” 

Megatron gasped, taken aback. “What?” 

“You said they’re better off without you.” Deathsaurus’s tone remained steady, reasonable. “So prove it. Back up your statement. Where’s your evidence? What testimonies support your claim?” 

“I…” Megatron folded his hands over the Autobot insignia in the center of his chest. “I feel the truth of it in my spark.” 

“Why would anyone give a damn about feelings?” Deathsaurus looked honestly bewildered. “It’s our _actions_ that define us.” The warlord sat on his haunches, curling his tail around his forelegs, and held his head high. “Everything you say you _feel_ doesn’t really come out in what you _do_ , does it? Everything _I_ feel is carefully measured before it’s acted upon. So what does it matter what we _feel_ if it doesn’t change anything?” 

Megatron did not want to listen to a lecture from a junior warlord. “You know Tarn will turn on you the second he’s done with me.” 

“Of course he will.” Deathsaurus seemed disappointed in Megatron, rather than surprised or angered by Megatron’s words. “You know, if I were going to turn my back on the faction I built—and I know a few things about turning my back, as you’ll recall—I really would have started by executing the DJD.” 

“You feel that your situation is my fault,” Megatron said. 

“Isn’t it?” Deathsaurus tilted his head—the same gesture, now in his beast form. 

Silence stretched between them. Megatron grew to realize that the question had not been rhetorical. 

“I…” Megatron didn’t know what to say. 

Deathsaurus pressed his attack. “Not to mention _your_ situation? And, worse, your new _crew’s_? Isn’t _all_ of it the natural consequences of the choices you made?” 

What could he say to this? He’d created a death squad designed to enforce loyalty to the Decepticon cause by inflicting terror on his own people. Right around the time he’d ordered the creation of the MTOs. The cold-constructed soldiers who’d had no say in their purpose or their destiny. 

He’d become the Senate. 

He’d become an uncrowned Prime. 

How dare he be surprised now that the DJD were doing what he had taught them to do? Or that they’d come for him? 

Megatron looked inside himself and realized he had not been surprised. 

And that was worse. 

Rodimus, and Ultra Magnus, and the rest of the Rod Squad—the danger they were in was all his fault. Megatron had known the DJD were coming, and he’d chosen to look away and do nothing. He deserved what he had coming. 

But they didn’t. 

Deathsaurus seemed to read his mind. “What did you _do_ on that _Lost Light_ ship of yours?” Deathsaurus’s tail flicked. “You know, I told Tarn that I was surprised he wasn’t flying around the universe apologizing to everyone on your behalf.” 

It was a funny image, but neither of them laughed or even smiled. 

Deathsaurus continued, “It turns out Tarn’s loyalty is to the Cause moreso than you. Or, at least, the Cause as he envisions it.” 

Megatron remembered that Deathsaurus still wore a Decepticon badge on his chest. It made Megatron believe that Deathsaurus still considered himself a Decepticon. He probably had his own definition of the Decepticon Cause. 

Megatron wondered if he would live long enough to find out what it was. 

“So where’s your loyalty?” Deathsaurus asked. 

Megatron had no doubt that Deathsaurus knew precisely how much his questions hurt. 

“It’s not to your troops,” Deathsaurus mused. “You abandoned them when you became an Autobot. It’s not to your Cause. You recanted it. In fact, I’d even go so far as to say you’d abandoned it before I was even brought online, even if you hadn’t realized it yet.” 

Megatron had been brutalized in a cell once before. Whirl’s blows had taught a young miner a whole new kind of agony. Not just the physical beating, but the knowledge of the authority that had ordered it, that could crush him and everything within him and erase it all from existence. 

Megatron would not just sit here and let Deathsaurus tear him apart with words. 

“As I recall,” Megatron said, “there was a certain military operation which ended in massive Decepticon casualties— _thousands_ of dead MTOs—because our critical diversion never materialized _after an entire Warworld went missing_. Who’s to blame for _that_?” 

It was true, if not entirely fair. Megatron had known that the Decepticons assigned to play the role of the diversion would be decimated. One of his advisors—and Primus help him, he couldn’t remember who—one of his advisors had put forth Deathsaurus’s name. 

It hadn’t been that long before that Deathsaurus had been the Decepticon Army’s rising star. The model MTO—the proof that even a made-to-order soldier could make good. But that had been when Deathsaurus’s successes shone brightly enough to conceal the words whispered about him in the halls of power. He was difficult. Disrespectful. Arrogant. Mercurial. 

Then his fortunes changed. He called his own retreats, disobeyed orders, played it safe at every turn. The mission was no longer his top priority. He’d replaced it with some inexplicable priorities known only to himself. 

He was passed over for a promotion. His troops grumbled. Deathsaurus himself seemed not to care. He didn’t create trouble; nor did he learn his lesson and change his behaviour. The entire Conclave believed he was biding his time, though none of them knew what for. 

Choosing Deathsaurus for the dangerous diversion was an elegant solution to two problems. Distract the Autobots, and eliminate a troublemaker. 

Deathsaurus had used the opportunity to commit the largest desertion in Cybertronian history. 

Now he stood before Megatron, talking about shirking responsibility. 

Megatron hoped his salvo had hit, and hated himself for once again seeking to inflict agony on another living thing. 

But Deathsaurus’s features showed no pain. “Their lives weren’t my responsibility.” 

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “The _mission_ was your responsibilty.” 

“ _My crew_ were my responsibility. My crew, who are now the _largest_ Decepticon unit still standing. My Cause is to keep my people alive and give them lives worth living and for the past million years, I have _succeeded_.” 

“And now you have the DJD at your doorstep.” A cheap shot, but the only one Megatron could take. 

“We’re not dead yet.” Deathsaurus’s optics glittered coldly. 

Megatron wondered what contingency plans Deathsaurus and his crew might be building, even now. He would not insult the rogue warlord by asking. He knew Deathsaurus wasn’t fool enough to answer him. 

Deathsaurus folded his wings and changed the subject. “If you’re asking do I feel guilty for those deaths, yes, to some extent I do. There were a lot of good Decepticons who became collateral damage because I gathered my people and left without warning. In an abstract sense, I understand that. But I could not in good conscience sacrifice my crew—my _family—_ for strangers.” 

He used the alien word without hesitation. _Family._

Megatron lashed out. “What’s the difference between your crew and anyone else? Do your people deserve to live moreso than other people, just because they follow you?” 

Deathsaurus shook his head, though Megatron wasn’t sure if the gesture meant negation, denial, or simply a reflexive action indicating deep thought. “I can’t save everyone,” Deathsaurus said quietly, “and I don’t feel any need to try. That’s another difference between us, and I have no scale with which to measure who’s right and who’s wrong. You tried to save…what? All of Cybertron? The Cybertronian species? The soul of a culture?” His wings flared. “You were going to save them whether they wanted you to or not. You were willing to pressgang some innocents, kill others, in the name of your righteous cause.” 

“As though you haven’t killed strangers. Innocents.” 

“My crew has to eat.” Deathsaurus said it without shame. 

Megatron did not know how to argue that Deathsaurus should share at least some of the crushing burden of guilt that weighed so heavily on his shoulders, ever since he’d realized that organic life was _life_. Deathsaurus already knew that—he just didn’t care. He was a predatory animal, and carnivores needed to eat. That stark. That simple. Megatron did not know how to argue nuance to a creature that saw its world in black and white. 

_Because you had him built that way._

_He is exactly what you created him to be. A killer._

Megatron might wish for Deathsaurus to develop some sense of guilt, if only in rebellion against the role that Megatron had so callously cast him in. But Deathsaurus seemed content to embrace it instead. Megatron supposed that there had been some mechs in the mines who’d genuinely loved their jobs, who would have freely chosen them, albeit in better working conditions and with more sympathetic overseers. 

Megatron had ordered his scientists to build a better monster, and they had, and now it was standing before him on the other side of the bars. 

“Hunger is a fact. Pain is a fact. Loneliness is a fact. A Decepticon victory is an abstract ideal, yet you judged it to be worth however many lives it cost, right up until it wasn’t, and then…” Deathsaurus leaned forward to scrutinize Megatron again. “No, you’re still doing it. Those Autobots from the _Lost Light_. The ones in the Necrobot’s fortress. They’re here because of _you_. They’re just tools for you to use as you chase your absolution.” Deathsaurus’s tail sliced through the air. “In the end, everything is all about you. What you want. What you believe. What you feel. Your vision, your guilt, you, you, _you_.” 

Deathsaurus changed shape and stroked his chin. Another ping of sonics crawled over Megatron’s hide. Megatron finally understood the expression on Deathsaurus’s face. Not rage or fear or revulsion but simple _curiosity._

“Are you satisfied?” Megatron demanded icily. 

Deathsaurus nodded. “I think so.” 

With no further ceremony, he turned and began walking away down the corridor. Megatron did not know how to cope with such a sudden and unceremonious dismissal. “That was all you wanted?” 

Deathsaurus paused, looked back, and nodded again. 

Megatron knew better than to ask any more questions that could be answered with a simple yes or no. “Tell me why you bothered.” 

Deathsaurus tilted his head in that inquisitive gesture. 

“You talk about _actions_ over _feelings_ , but you haven’t done a thing the whole time you’ve been here looking at me other than running your mouth. If you’re not going to _accomplish_ anything, why did you come?” 

“Well, you _were_ ultimately responsible for having me created. And I’ve heard about you since I came online. All those orders, all those missions, all those battles—they all came back to you in the end.” He shrugged, his wings flaring. “What can I say? I was curious. What kind of person would have—would _take_ —that kind of power.” 

Megatron scowled. He didn’t like being treated as an exhibit in a zoo. An artifact of curiosity. The subject of Deathsaurus’s idle entertainment. “And what kind is that?” 

“The ordinary kind.” 

Megatron blinked. 

Deathsaurus shrugged again. “Oh, you’re stronger, and probably smarter, and definitely luckier than most of us, but in the end you’re just a Cybertronian, no more and no less, as fundamentally flawed as any other.” 

Megatron _truly_ did not like being thought of as _ordinary_. 

He wondered if his younger self would have had such a problem with it, and suspected that he would not have. 

“So now that your curiosity has been satisfied, what will you do?” Megatron asked. 

Deathsaurus blinked. “If you must know, I’m going to run some maintenance diagnostics on the main cannon’s targeting computer. Keeping busy until Tarn gets back.” Again that head-tilt. “Though I don’t see how that’s relevant for someone in your situation, or what interest you might have in such matters.” 

Megatron tried hard not to splutter. “And then what?” 

“Surely you’re not fool enough to ask me to speculate on what might happen after you’re dead. There’s nothing I could say that would give you any leverage now.” Deathsaurus narrowed his optics as he thought twice. “No, I take that back. You’re not fishing for information to try to buy yourself freedom, or mercy, or a reprieve from Tarn, are you? You’re just not used to being _irrelevant_.” 

Megatron felt his spark stop. 

And Deathsaurus, sensing injured prey, could not defy his instinct to attack. “Did you never wonder why I deserted instead of trying to overthrow you? Every other disgruntled commander tried to overthrow you. At least up until I left.” 

“Starscream said you were a coward.” 

Deathsaurus did not deny it. 

“Shockwave said you didn’t have the strength to succeed at it.” 

Deathsaurus did not deny that either. 

Megatron did not want to admit that he had believed both these theories. Now, given what Deathsaurus had told him, he thought that Soundwave’s guess had come closest. “Soundwave said you didn’t want the job.” 

“There we go.” 

Finally, it was obvious to Megatron why not. What good would it have done Deathsaurus’s beloved crew to have their leader become the new Decepticon Emperor? They would have had to fight other Decepticon factions to finalize the claim, while also fighting the Autobots. For another million years, perhaps longer. Megatron finally understood that he’d not had anything Deathsaurus would have wanted. Deathsaurus had left Cybertron in his dust and built his own Empire in the stars. 

Megatron, and everything he had, was _irrelevant_. 

“And for you it’s all about your crew.” Megatron could think of no better plan of attack. “Them, them, _them_. You’d commit any atrocities in their name, wouldn’t you?” 

“Of course.” Deathsaurus seemed surprised that Megatron would even have to ask. 

“You really don’t have a scale to measure right and wrong.” Megatron rose to his feet, pressed his attack. He could feel the old fire heating his blood. “Animals don’t, do they?” 

It wasn’t a fair thing to say. It perpetuated a stereotype of mechs like Ravage. Megatron didn’t even believe it himself, but he knew it should hurt Deathsaurus. That was what everyone at the Conclave had said about Deathsaurus behind his back—that he was reckless and contrary and stubborn because, like any dumb animal, he didn’t know any better. Surely that had to hurt. 

One thing Megatron was very good at was knowing how to share his pain. 

If he was lucky, that pain would incite Deathsaurus to attack, which would anger Tarn, which would cause friction between the DJD and the Warworld crew. Plenty of pain for everyone. 

But maybe not for the Rod Squad. Not if Deathsaurus killed him and Tarn—or Overlord—fell on Deathsaurus. Maybe then Rodimus and his friends could escape while the Decepticons were fighting amongst themselves. 

To that end, Megatron lashed out again. “Now it looks like Tarn has got himself a _second_ Pet. Another dumb beast that will attack—or sit and stay—on his command.” 

Deathsaurus folded back into his beast form, which somehow felt more like defiance than like concession. Megatron felt his instincts twitch again, as though to warn him that Deathsaurus was planning to retaliate. 

He forced himself to stay calm. He _wanted_ Deathsaurus to retaliate. Wanted Deathsaurus to turn off the bars and take his life before Tarn could. 

Wanted to buy the Rod Squad a diversion. 

Wanted to die at the hands of the MTO he’d wronged. It was what he deserved. 

Deathsaurus’s retaliation came in the form of eight softly spoken words. 

“I sleep well at night,” Deathsaurus said softly. “I regret nothing.” 

Megatron felt those words like a spear through his very spark. 

Deathsaurus did not bother to gloat or even watch Megatron’s reaction. He simply padded down the hallway, no longer interested in anything Megatron might say or do. 

It was the cruelest possible thing Deathsaurus could have done. 

Megatron lay back down on his cot and returned his attention to the ceiling of his cell. 

Tarn would be back soon. _Damus._ Megatron had given him special attention for one reason and one reason only: to hurt Optimus. And he’d found that his special attention had turned an awkward, self-loathing minibot into a devastating tool to uphold his Will. Tarn, like Deathsaurus, was exactly what Megatron had created him to be. 

Megatron wondered if the Rod Squad would come for him. They’d been exiled with him. For allegedly supporting him or at least for not actively hating him as much as Getaway thought they should. 

They were on Necroworld, facing death at the hands of the DJD, because of Megatron. 

_In the end, everything is all about you._

Megatron made another decision in a small, confined space, in a cell in the brig of Deathsaurus’s Warworld. 

If he survived, he was going to prove Deathsaurus wrong. 


End file.
